Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta Her Hair
by darthsydious
Summary: Molly has been over Tom, and now she's ready to be over Sherlock Holmes. Or is she? Based on the scene/song from "South Pacific". Sherlolly, and Mythea if you squint.


This was absolutely it. The last straw. Molly Elizabeth Hooper was a strong independent woman who didn't need no man. Yes. She was done. She was done with Tom and his idiotic whistling nose, his open-mouth chewing at the breakfast table and his underwear hanging on the bathroom door. Of course, she'd been done with Tom for quite some time now, but that was beside the point. She was done with Sherlock Holmes too, for that matter. Him and his rudeness. Flat out rude, mop-top, constant violin-playing, cadaver stealing, bombastic high-functioning sociopathic tendencies and…and…_rudeness_! She didn't need his suddenly sweet behavior to her, or his tucking her into bed when he was using her flat as a bolt-hole and she certainly didn't need to see his stupid twee face kissing at John and Mary's baby as if a man that impossibly tall and lovely should hold a baby as if he loved it to bits the rotten bloody beautiful stupid head.

Yes. Molly was done. She could be happy by herself. She told Anthea and Mary and Meena so when she sent out a mass text to all the girls to meet her at the club, they were going to dance and drink and celebrate singlehood (or finally being able to drink after weaning Baby Watson, in Mary's case).

"You're right," Anthea slapped Molly on the back a touch too hard (she was a bit smashed). "I don't need his pointy nose, beady eyes…fancy bottom…face…head. I mean…I love my work, love working for him and all but I don't need him!" she emptied her glass. "Except when I do."  
"Right," Molly said, nodding vigorously. "Wait…who are you talking about?"  
"Obviously the elder Holmes," Anthea said. "Come on, let's go find Meena and Mary, this is a good song."

On the crowded floor, the four gathered together, talking over the music as they moved with the beat.

"I mean not the eldest Holmes, of course," Anthea shouted. "Mycroft, I mean Mycroft, I don't need him."  
"And I don't need Sherlock."  
"Just to play devil's advocate," Mary began.  
"No!" Both Anthea and Molly protested and Meena laughed as Mary began to vociferously claim how different Sherlock was ever since Molly broke things off with Tom.  
"I don't care!" Molly said. "I don't need him! I'm- I'm over him! I'm gonna do like that chickie in South Pacific."  
"What'd she do?" Meena asked, blinking slowly. They made their way back to the bar.  
"You know, she said she'd get over him, and she did. So I can too."  
"You never finished that movie," Mary said.  
"Don't care. Saw enough," Molly turned to the bar, taking her drink from the bartender. "I'm over Sherlock Holmes. I am over him. O-V-U-R him."  
"Good for you!" Meena rejoiced and raised her glass in toast to Molly.  
"I'm- I'm swearing off him. Just…rip him outta my life, like a plaster."  
"What?" Mary frowned, confused while Anthea blearily nodded.  
"Never mind," Molly waved her hand with a shrug. "But I'm done with him, you'll see-" as if by cue, the deejay changed the song and Molly and Anthea grabbed hands, running to the dance floor.

"Those aren't even the lyrics!" Mary shouted over the music as they tried to sing along. She watched, amused as Anthea and Molly danced their cares away. After a moment, she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Sherlock. The collar of his belstaff was turned up, he put a finger to his lips before turning to the dance floor. By now the song had changed to some other pop break-up song. The culprit was obviously Meena, who was standing by the deejay, plying him with a drink. Molly came shimmying backwards up the dance floor until she spun, expecting to grab Mary's hands, instead she ended up running smack into Sherlock. She was so surprised, she couldn't speak, just sort of squeaked, eyes widened and then stumbled for the bathroom. Mary only shook her head, going to the dance floor to fetch Anthea. Meena would stay out longer, but Anthea ought to be home before three, Mycroft would worry otherwise.

Seeing Mary was preoccupied, Sherlock followed Molly to the restroom. It wasn't difficult to find her, since she was standing on the toilet, and the top of her head cleared the top of the stalls.

"That was interesting, Molly," he said conversationally. "Though I admit I've never seen anyone twerk to a Demi Lovato song."  
"You don't go to clubs," Molly blurted, trying to comprehend that first of all Sherlock even knew who Demi Lovato was, much less knew what twerking was.  
"Neither do you," he countered neatly. The sound of her stepping down off the toilet echoed in the restroom, followed by the door of the stall swinging on creaking hinges.  
"What do you want, Mr. Holmes?"  
"Oh, we're to that, are we?" he asked, an eyebrow quirked.  
"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I feel we ought to maintain a professional relationship, considering our past meetings.  
"Our past meetings have thus far added up to three-hundred and sixty-four conversations at St. Barts, twelve of which either of us have been seen either naked or on the toilet, besides which we've slept together on no less than one-hundred and seventy-seven of those meetings, I think we've gone beyond proper names."  
"Sharing a bed doesn't mean we slept together!"  
"I believe it does, we were both in full REM cycle at least eighty-five percent of the time, the other fifteen percent I was in my mind-palace, but I still remained in the bed while you slept." He paused. "Unless you were referring to us having sex, in which case I am inclined to agree. We have not had sex. Yet. Obviously because we aren't married yet."  
"Wait-wait," she waved her arms, an action which caused her whole body to sway. "I must be very drunk, did you say 'we have not had sex _yet'_?"  
"Yes I did, and yes you are," he turned at the sound of the bathroom door being flung open, a woman flung herself to the stall between them and vomited. "This is not a discussion I would like to have here, especially when you're in such a state. May I take you home, we could continue it later when you aren't so…"  
"Vulnerable?"  
"Drunk."

"Tell me one thing," she said as he guided her through the club, out into the cool night air.  
"Yes?" he flagged down a cab, holding her arm to keep her steady.  
"Do you want to have sex with me because you love me?"  
"Yes, that is why most people do it, although I did state before I'd like to marry you first." He let go of her arm to open the door of the cab and turned to see her flat on her face on the sidewalk. "Oh…bollocks…"

Molly didn't remember much of the rest of the night, she knew Sherlock took her home, helped her out of her shoes, commenting on the height of the heels and that he was impressed she could walk in them at all. She fell asleep half-way through his explanation of the history of the stiletto and how it was a handy weapon.

When she woke up, she saw a glass of water and two aspirin waiting for her on the nightstand. After gulping down the water and pills, she slowly got to her feet, finding her phone plugged into the wall. Messages from Mary, alerting her that she had taken Anthea home to Mycroft (who seemed quite relieved and befuddled at his PA's declaration of man-hating and then in the next breath falling on him sobbing that she loved him). Meena had texted her twice, informing her that she was home safe, the other was garbled and Molly couldn't make it out. Leaving the bedroom, she headed for the bathroom, brushing her teeth and avoiding Toby's withering glare from over the edge of the bathtub. Hearing the piercing whistle of the kettle, she shut the bathroom cabinet and headed out in search of the one responsible for that awful racket.

"Tea is ready," Sherlock informed her, setting her mug on the table, pouring the water over the teabag. Handing her the cup, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I can't stay, case just came up, but we will talk, will you come to Baker Street tonight? " Molly was fairly certain she nodded, but Sherlock was looking so anxiously at her that she managed to nod again, still reeling over what he'd said the night before.  
"Yes," she said. The corners of his mouth turned up just a little, but his eyes were warm as he regarded her. He closed the distance between them, pressing a gentle kiss to her mouth. Molly felt as if her legs would turn to jelly, but she did manage to put an arm around him, squeezing the back of his neck before he very reluctantly stepped back, forehead against hers.

"Molly," he was actually smiling now, as if holding back laughter, and she couldn't resist smiling back at him.  
"What?"  
"You've spilt your tea all over the kitchen." They looked at the floor, and Molly realized when he'd kissed her she'd utterly forgotten the mug in her hand.  
"Oh bollocks!" she snapped, irritated. He chuckled, pressing one last kiss to her.  
"Tonight, Baker Street, eight o'clock, should have the case solved by then. How do you feel about family gatherings?"  
"What?"  
"Nothing, dress nice, that is…whatever you like to wear, not what you think others like you to wear."  
"Okay," she stepped over the puddle of tea, following him to the door. "Who will be there?"  
"Oh no one important, just mummy and father."  
_"What?"  
_"Don't worry," he said with a shrug. "Mummy has been dying to meet you, father's rather like your father…there's nothing to worry about. Okay?" She nodded then, mustering up a smile.  
"Okay. I'll be there, eight o'clock."  
"On the dot." He kissed her forehead once more before finally leaving, hurrying down to the street.

Molly stood in her kitchen, slippers soggy from tea, Toby smelling said spilt tea before crouching beside it, undecided of it as of yet.

Sherlock wanted her to meet his parents. He loved her. He wanted to marry her. Also he wanted to have sex with her. Finding herself utterly thrilled and unable to comprehend, she dug through the pockets of her dressing gown for her phone, tapping out a quick message to Mary Watson:

_Oddest thing just happened, but it's perfectly fine. Sherlock wants to have sex. But first he wants to marry me. And I'm meeting his parents tonight. Incidentally, can I borrow your copy of 'South Pacific'?_ MollyH


End file.
